Only Passing Through
by Sergeant Seahorse
Summary: AU: The world is ending. Emily Prentiss and Aaron Hotchner have to high-tail it back to Quantico, and zombies profile like absolute crap. Welcome to the Apocalypse.
1. Prologue

_**A/N**: I have potty-mouthhole tendencies and an affinity for describing things with words endorsed by Sesame Street. Let's do this.  
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_Prologue_

Splashes of dawn began arching over the horizon, a hesitant glow tugging at the skirts of the night. It crept along rooftops, over rivers of concrete, tucked away corners and lazy canopies, chasing away the darkness in a sweep of humble authority. It blushed and blossomed, the words of commencement for a story on high. The stars withered, yielding until called upon once again by the tendrils of twilight.

The waters of the distant ocean were bathed in a muted gold, licked by the finger-pads of Midas himself. They lapped at the shore, the cadence of duty eternal beating at the sparkling sand. The tide frothed and flowed, the shore's most faithful bedfellow; a partnership in tandem by no master commanded, beckoning the scarlet sun which yawned into the water's reflection.

A chaotic chorus of bird calls rose from the treetops, a symphony of voices vying to carry the declaration of the day's birth. Crickets carried out the final notes of their nighttime ballads, lamenting chirps held until the close. From afar a coyote cried a tormented howl, as the moon, its one true companion, faded without consent. The shadows fled from the rising light, skulking back to sullied crooks until summoned by the inky dusk. The air hung dense, a misty curtain clinging to every agreeable fiber and surface; blades of grass yielded, bending and dripping with rolling dew.

High above the city on a throne of weary brick and mortar, a woman sat alone, a surreptitious onlooker of the day's conception. The heels of her boots bounced carelessly off the side of the building, legs swinging in suit, dangled from the precipice of the rooftop. The dampness of the morning seeped into her bones, chilling, despite the heat of the day rising to a boil around her. It was the south, after all, leaving little room for illusion of anything but stifling warmth. The coarseness of the brick chafed her fingertips as she hung on, rebellious against her touch. Her tongue danced slowly across her lips, the habitual waltz surfaced as her mind ventured elsewhere. In a manner almost ceremonial, she reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and removed a small knife, brandished with a flick of her wrist. She pulled her left leg up and laid her boot on her opposite thigh; the fabric of her jeans groaned with the sudden movement. With the careful consideration of a craftsman, she brought the blade down to the boot's heel and stuck the tip in, the begrudging rubber requiring her knife's insistence. She made a small notch, a single slice lost among a line of similar slits. Her eyes lingered on the sight, the row of forty-seven haphazard cuts made one after another around the perimeter of her boot, a jarring reminder and gut-wrenching notion.

And so Emily Prentiss ushered in day forty-seven of the irreparable clusterfuck of post-apocalyptic Earth.


	2. Clumsy Confession

_**A/N**: Thank you for the initial interest and reviews! Appreciated, obviously, and welcomed in all forms. Going to try to do my best to get chapters out relatively quickly, so months or YEARS (Yeesh.) do not pass in between. I know very deeply in my fanfiction-loving bosom how kidney-smashing that can be. I promise Hotch will appear soon. OR DO I!? ... Yes, I actually do._

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**Day Forty-Seven**

Only after the morning light had crept up her pant legs and settled into her lap did Emily rise to leave her vantage point. Her fingertips brushed the sky as she stretched, standing, taut muscles drawn from long rest. She yawns. The day was peculiar, for no reason other than its complete lack of remarkability. The wind teased the tips of her hair, clouds rolled past, occasionally impeding the sun. It was as any day before, and set the tone for many to follow; aside from the face-nibbling monsters and nearly complete void of human life. Observing the wreckage became merely another cross to bear in the collection Emily had acquired. If she were the martyr type, the medals of her professed suffering would clink useless and heavy around her neck for all to bear witness.

She lifted her hand, leveling her pinky with the horizon. Squinting out of one eye, lip hung up in a scrunched nose solely by proximity, she employed the rough and rarely accurate science of time measurement by finger. Slowly she counted her digits, stacking hand upon hand. In these moments, recalling the many science lessons she had squandered as a teenager peppering her forearms with crude pen tattoos and pretentiously reading novels detailing the feminist plight, she wished more than anything for Reid's familiarity with the meaning of the sun's relative position… Or a damn watch. If only someone would have told her speaking six languages and experience with Goth makeup would prove to be entirely useless skills during an apocalypse.

She had counted six fingers. At fifteen minutes apiece and the arbitrarily assigned start time of six, it was either roughly seven-thirty in the morning or that guess was a festering pile of crap.

Thankfully she tried, despite life's best efforts, to run with the glass half-full crowd.

Greater thanks to the notion that no one was around to witness this true travesty of science.

Under the assumption that this calculation was anywhere near the correct time, she needed to be heading back to the makeshift base, as to not throw one magnificent wrench in the daily grind.

Not that this did anything for her sense of urgency.

Turning on heel, she headed back towards the heavy, steel-frame door from which control of the abandoned rooftop had been so easily achieved. The rusted hinges protested as she pulled it open, the jagged sound ringing in her ears. Her relationship with simple mechanical objects had always been tempestuous at best; it was a miracle her fingers had endured every curling iron and stove top she had owned. Trying to keep the sound of screeching metal and reactive swearing to a minimum, as to avoid alerting every gurgling, putrid mess of a zombie to her location, she managed to force the door to crack just enough to slide through.

Both boobs intact.

As she tiptoed down the steep stairs with the caution of a human minefield checker, she questioned whether her sporadic visits to watch the sunrise were worth it. This church had been built hundreds of years ago, presumably for religiously-inclined dwarves, if the claustrophobic corridors and dinky staircases were any indication. Never in her wildest dreams had she considered her large feet would bring any other form of grief than making online shoe-shopping a pain in the ass. Her burning calves and snail's pace down the shallow stairs indicated otherwise.

As her heels hit the thick tile of the cathedral's floor, her weak-kneed stance was effectively offset by a strong sense of relief to be on solid ground. That obviously was not the stairway that had inspired Led Zeppelin to wax poetic.

The notion that she had chosen a church to perch atop was laughable in the least; but then again, masochism had always been one of her most redeeming qualities. It had kept her glued to the mutilated remains of victims' lives, the necessary blinders in a race against sadists and Strauss' strict paperwork deadlines alike. Her relationship with religion was a snake bite long hollowed of poison, but the faint sting of its presence still remained; despite this, she found herself walking down the long aisle towards the altar. To notice the abandoned feel of her surroundings was simply a matter of routine, an observational truth to really drive home life's circumstances being a real fucking drag. But there she was, counting the empty pews and overturned Bibles in the World's Most Useless Role Call.

Fifty-eight pews, thirty-seven Bibles. Hallelujah.

Stepping tentatively up the stairs to the platform, she sat down, cross-legged in front of a cross swathed in withered flowers; poetic as a Hemingway novel. She sighed, the sound echoing in the pitched ceiling like a ghostly wail. It might as well be anyhow.

She found herself at a loss for words. If retrospection was something worth engaging in it would probably be easier, but reminiscing was a long-forgotten luxury. Zombies weren't particularly accommodating of reflective sentimentality, except for maybe the characteristic sitting still and zoning out. Actually, scratch that. Fondly thinking of the past was the gateway drug for being the main course in a quick and painful zombie dinner. They're probably fans.

Yeah, the mechanics of zombie preference was a spectacular opening to prayer. Well played.

Redirecting her thoughts back to suitable material, she concentrated. She thought of the team. She thought of Garcia's fluffy pens. She thought of Rossi's exceptional love of cigars. She thought of Reid's index finger pointed skywards while stating a fact. She thought of Henry in JJ's arms. She thought of Morgan's inability to buy a shirt in any size other than obnoxiously tight. She thought with great hope that her friends were safe. She thought of Matt. She thought of his hand in hers as he gently encouraged her farther into the Roman church chapel, despite the disapproving glares of the church's elders. She thought about how much she didn't want to think of his death. She thought about it anyway. She thought about puppies, if only to redirect the trajectory of her thoughts. She thought about Sergio. She thought of his incessant kneading of her gut to wake her up for food in the morning. She thought about coffee. She thought about her fancy, automatic-brew coffee pot at home. She continued to think about coffee, with every ounce of irrational mourning and longing. She thought about breakfast, which she had promised Hotch she would be preparing today. She thought about how she really needed to get her ass in gear and return to their camp immediately.

She snapped out of her carousel of jumbled thoughts, looking up to the magnificent stained glass window depicting Jesus' Ascension; a glowing kaleidoscope of welcoming light.

"I'm not very good at this, not to mention being incredibly out of practice, but…" she hesitated, absent-mindedly picking at her nails. "… In light of everything's that happened, what's your excuse?" she chastised, her words directed towards the man cast in the glass. The unshakeable smile pressing his cheeks remained.

"In terms of helping mankind, I think the whole zombie fiasco was a little misguided. If the people of this church would've known their prayers would be answered with getting sick and having their guts eaten out, I don't think they'd have been so generous during offering," she chided, her words dripping with sarcasm.

She shifted in her spot, tongue rolling over her lip in a quick sweep before gritting her teeth with apology. "Sorry. Having to sleep with one eye open and not knowing if your friends have been devoured really puts the edge on," she clarified, twisting to check over her shoulder out of practice.

She continued, "I just really can't tell if being alive is some sick gift or a punishment. But I'm trying to figure it out and avoid being a midday snack. So," she paused as she rose from the ground, wiping her hands off on the thighs of her pants.

"If you're listening, which shouldn't be that difficult considering the massive population cutbacks, but… if you are, please take care of my family. Make it so all of this work trying to get home isn't a complete waste of time," she insisted, her stance wearily defiant.

"Also," she added, her tone softening, almost pleading, "if you have any shred of decency, please let Hotch have his son to return to. He has nothing left but his reckless hope. Don't let his… our, efforts go unrewarded."

Amen.


End file.
